


Where Your Heartache Exists

by allegheny



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Commitment, M/M, Making Out, Philadelphia Phillies, Religious Conflict, grow up bryce!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-30 08:32:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19849435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegheny/pseuds/allegheny
Summary: I push my emotions off a bridgeAfter taking them hostage with a shotgunThey're both ready to go, but Bryce just can't seem to pull the trigger.





	Where Your Heartache Exists

**Author's Note:**

  * For [michaelsgang](https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelsgang/gifts), [eovaldi (dangerdays)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerdays/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [eovaldi (dangerdays)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangerdays/pseuds/eovaldi) in the [boysofsummer19](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/boysofsummer19) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Bryce Harper/JT Realmuto.  
> How great is it to date your favorite player?

"Put me down! Put me down! Put me down!"

Bryce watches his arms dangling, his overgrown hair falling in his face as J.T. hauls him away, slung across his shoulder like a bag of potatoes.

"Put me down! Put me down!" He screeches, stifled with hysterical laughter. "Put me down!"

He can hear J.T. trying to act serious, can tell he's biting his cheeks, unable to hold back a grin. He carries him along the hallway, and Bryce is limp and half-heartedly bumping J.T.'s back with his fists in mock-struggle.

J.T. drops him on the bed in Bryce's bedroom, lets him bounce onto the mattress like a big package, and Bryce is looking up and smiling deliriously, drinking his whole face in, those dark blue eyes, that strong round jaw, that chin dimple. And J.T.'s climbing over him, his lips finding Bryce's neck, and he's kissing it and it tickles, makes Bryce flinch and giggle uncontrollably, a pure, clear, elated feeling filling up his stomach.

He wraps his arms around J.T.'s midsection, and pulls him close down against his chest, burying his nose in the crook of his shoulder while J.T. continues pecking at his throat.  
He doesn't remember what they were doing before this.  
Right now, all that matters is J.T. and his warm, heavy body on top of Bryce. When he looks at J.T., something happens inside his chest, an unspeakable gravitational pull, a longing like he's never felt, a rush inside his chest, the kind of thing he thought he'd be able to resist when he was envisioning this as a teenager in his good temple clothes, but that he really can't, and really doesn't want to now that he's grown and faced with the real thing.  
It's too wonderful.  
It's too good.

It's not about sex, he thinks, as J.T. starts biting softly at the sensitive skin of his neck, careful not to leave marks. Sex has to do with it, of course — J.T.'s grabbing at his thigh, pressing hard— but it's not the bottom line ; he would know if it was. No, it's more, and less, it's the strange care with which J.T. runs his strong hands along his body, the way he can hold on to J.T. hard without being afraid to hurt him, the split second when they open their eyes and Bryce thinks he could just burst out crying at how beautiful J.T.'s eyes _look_. It lifts into his chest and keeps rising, and rising, and Bryce feels so happy, so lucky, he just wants to thank God he can feel like this about J.T.. But then he remembers.  
But it doesn't matter, it doesn't matter. Not right now.

J.T.'s hands are all over him, stroking and grabbing and groping, finding the groove of his waist and the muscles of his chest. His palms drag across Bryce’s skin blindly and he’s kissing his mouth like he’s a drunkard trying to open a door, his lips colliding with Bryce’s haphazardly and off-target, almost too hard. It's feverish and unpredictable, there's teeth nipping and fingernails grazing, but when they stop their furious kissing to catch their breath, their noses rub together with a surprising softness, and they nuzzle each other's face for a few seconds before spiralling back into their frenzy.

Soon enough J.T.'s tugging at Bryce's t-shirt, and they're fumbling together, Bryce wrestling out of it like it's smouldering. Up above him, J.T.'s flushed, his lips swollen already, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He's panting, and when he pulls off his own top, Bryce can see the heave of his ribcage, his trim, muscular chest pumping as he brings his arms up over his head. He reaches up, fingertips stroking down from his belly button to his waistband, and J.T. smiles at him, easing himself down to his elbows, straddling him.

Gently, he rests his forehead against Bryce's. His lips are hovering above his. Not quite touching. His breath warm and heavy on Bryce's tongue.  
Bryce closes his eyes, letting J.T.'s hands cup his jaw, rough, well-worked fingers light like feathers, and he just about dies at the tenderness with which J.T. strokes his cheeks.

"Say," J.T. whispers, all the mischief from earlier lost in love and lust. "You wanna?"

Bryce laughs against J.T.'s mouth. When he's touching him like this, well, of course he wants to.

\---

Bryce wakes up to rummaging.  
There's J.T.'s big, naked body, the sheets slipping off him, his ass on display.  
It's early. Earlier than his alarm, anyway. Probably a normal wake-up call for someone who isn't on baseball time.

He groans, hauling himself up onto his elbow, eyes caked with sleep.

"Jake... w'sup?"

J.T. sits up, looking peeved. In his hand, there's a little black book that Bryce was given when he was eight years old. All creased and rolled up.

"You still got this in your nightstand? You said you threw it away."

He did say that. He said it, he told J.T. he threw it away. The truth was, when it was time to drop it in the trash, he couldn't do it. He felt too guilty. Felt like he was being watched. You don't take a lifetime of Mormon teachings away from someone in a heartbeat.  
And Bryce feels so embarrassed about it. He wishes he could just get guts, and stop being afraid of the unknown.

"Yeah, I meant to do it" he fumbles. "I just... It's complicated. It's not that simple!"

J.T. immediately bristles, his forehead creasing in displeasure.

"I KNOW it is. You think it ain't complicated for _me_?"

Bryce doesn't know what to answer. He's not gonna pretend that what J.T. is going through, has been going through, isn't just as hard. He wishes he could have the kind of courage J.T. had, to sever himself from it all, because he had clear convictions and a will shape his life to fit them. An _authority_ on himself.  
Of course, then again, J.T.'s only just an Oklahoma Catholic. It's not exactly the same as, well— although Bryce still can't bring himself to speak badly of the Church, he knows, has heard, has seen, how much of a struggle it is to simply just leave. He's not even sure he wants to do it, even though he'd rather die than willingly step into a temple after last time. He's thrown away every letter, and he's sure they're going to tell his family soon, and it will be too late to push it all off then, but it's so much. It's just such a big step. Such a _commitment_.   
He won't tell J.T. that, though. It would be letting on how weak he really is.

J.T. must see Bryce's discomfiture, because he mellows out, his brow unfurrowing, his shoulders slumping softly. He leans his arm down against the pillow.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." He sighs, ever so gently. "Nevermind. Take your time. I don't wanna rush you, don't wanna make you feel guilty or nothin', I just—"

He reaches out to touch Bryce's cheek, and Bryce lets him, pointing his chin out into J.T.'s hand. J.T. pauses, lowering his head. Bryce holds his breath.

"I just _really_ like you." J.T. lets out, in the smallest voice he's ever heard him use.

Bryce knows what that means.

Within seconds he's all up against J.T.’s chest, shaky breath blowing on his face, and J.T.'s hands are in his hair and on his neck, and he's kissing his lips like he's tasting them.  
They fall back asleep until Bryce's alarm rings, the book forgotten on the nightstand, their embryo of a fight all but forgotten.

\--

When Bryce steps into the walk-in closet a week later, after J.T.'s left for early batting practice, he almost doesn't notice them.

Three hangers at the end of his jacket rack, and a small pile of neatly folded t-shirts in the earthy simple tones J.T. likes on the shelf underneath. On the hangers : a pair of sweatpants, a hoodie, a gingham shirt.  
He wonders for a second if they'd been there for a while, but Bryce knows himself, if there's anything his eye is acute for, it's his wardrobe. J.T. must have left everything this morning before leaving.  
He honestly doesn't know what to think of it. It doesn't look like J.T. forgot the clothes. They're too tidy, too purposefully placed. He stands there for a while, just looking at them, and then takes the tail of the shirt in his hand, feeling the fabric with his fingers. It's a little crumpled.  
Slowly, Bryce raises the shirt to his nose, and smells it.  
It smells of detergent and drugstore aftershave : simple, clean, just like J.T..  
Bryce wishes he could be that : simple. Nothing about J.T. is complicated. He goes through life and makes choices. With his own two hands, he builds what he wants for himself.  
Bryce wishes things were like this for him. Wishes he could just walk away.  
But he's just not that kind of man, is he? He's always been too sentimental, despite himself. The one clean break he'd been able to make — Philadelphia — the forces and powers of Major League Baseball had cut out for him.

He stands there, and lets go of the shirt.  
He lets it be, just like the letters from the wards he piles up in the recycling bin.  
But he thinks about it all day.  
When he gets to the ballpark for the night's game, he finds J.T. alone in the locker room, pulling up his high socks. He always wants to get down to his knees and kiss all the way up his calves when he sees him doing this ; of course, he doesn't. J.T. rolls his pants back down to his ankle, and smoothes the wrinkles out. Bryce watches him, hand lingering on the side of his locker. It takes a little before J.T. looks up, but Bryce knows he knows he's here all along. He's just taking his time, tucking his laces in, pulling the pant cuffs down.  
When he does look up, he's got that small thin smile on his face that Bryce loves about him.

"Hey. How you doin'?"

Bryce brushes his hair back. J.T. always has that effect on him. He can just make Bryce feel so oddly self-conscious in public. Watching him play cards or just standing there in the dugout, Bryce can never hold eye contact with him. He has to look away and laugh and feel his face flush.  
He removes his glasses and puts them down in his stall.

"Good. You?" he replies, unbuttoning his pants.

"Yeah. Took a couple extra drills with Vinnie... Hopefully he stops thinkin' out there."

They both laugh, because they've talked this over two days ago in bed, J.T.'s arms wrapped around Bryce. J.T. stands up from his chair and gets a clean undershirt from his locker while Bryce steps out of his jeans and pulls his compression leggings on. They just get dressed in tacit, comfortable silence, but when Bryce sees J.T. carefully folding his sweaty undershirts, his preoccupations resurface, and he can't help but speak them out.

"By the way... You left some clothes at my house." he says, somewhat awkwardly, not sure if he's stating it or asking a question, and what he's actually looking for by saying it. He'll just let J.T. pick.

"Yeah." J.T. says, unfazed. "I know."

Bryce doesn't know what to answer to that. Maybe it _was_ a question he wanted to ask, after all. But he can't quite tell what.

"Okay?" he just says, sheepishly.

He hopes that's enough to tell J.T. he wants to hear more. He hopes that J.T. knows what he wants to hear, because he sure as hell doesn't.  
J.T. stares right ahead at his locker, not even giving Bryce a glance. His jaw has a weird set to it and Bryce can see his Adam's apple bob.

"I mean." He starts, sounding tenser than he did earlier. "I'm over at your place so much." He puts the shirt away on the shelf. "Might as well."

And then he looks at him with the coldest face he's ever seen on him. There's something angry about it, like when Bryce's mom found out his dad had been doing something he shouldn't have been, but there's also something oddly vulnerable, something fearful, defensive, betrayed like a cornered animal. He looks younger than Bryce has ever seen him in that split second, and it's like he's _daring_ Bryce to go on, to tell him what he really means by those half-questions, but Bryce is lucky.  
Just about half of the bullpen walks into the room, back from the gym, chattering loudly, and the conversation pretty much officially ends there as D-Rob intercepts J.T.. It's just as well, because Bryce still can't tell what he even feels about this whole thing, and he'd be hard pressed to tell J.T. what he expects of him.

They don't mention this again.

\--

Bryce runs as hard as he can but he knows it’s as good as done. Nobody catches that ball. It rolls out onto the warning track, the centerfielder helplessly racing after it. It’s too late. Bryce touches home plate and J.T. has himself a walkoff double.

The whole dugout zooms past him, bodies hitting him full-force with loud, yelling hugs, and he swings wildly in frenzied playfight, following the flock, running into centerfield where J.T. is spinning away from his feral teammates, shouting out towards the sky in victory.

"Fuck yeah, Jake!" Bryce screams, at the top of his lungs.

He sees Bryce, and opens his arms to catch him mid-flight, a leaping hug that almost knocks the both of them over.  
And it's like everyone around them disappears : Bryce's arms clutched tightly around J.T.'s chest, his face pressed into his shoulder, lifting him for a second, and J.T.'s hand at the back his head, fingers ruffling his hair, holding him with the other.

They stumble and turn, and they don't let go of each other. Bryce knows they should, but his heart is hammering in his chest and he just _can't_ , his eyes screwed shut, clenching so hard he can hardly breathe.

"Fuck yeah." he grunts against J.T.'s collarbone. "Fuck yeah, fuck yeah—"

He's interrupted by an ice-cold shower of Gatorade and for a second he thinks he'll jump away from J.T. in shock, but J.T. holds on firmly, and Bryce can only throw his head back in J.T.'s hand, and holler in victory. He hears J.T. laugh, pure and plain, a little raspy from yelling.

Bryce needs him like he's never needed anything else.  
They're barely inside his house in Chestnut Hill that they're already climbing over each other, furious and frantic, Bryce pushing J.T. against the wall as he kicks the front door closed, and it's a battle of kisses, hands grabbing clothes at the collar and sleeves, rough and rowdy. Their foreheads are bumping together as their mouths joust ; it's less like kissing and more like bruising as J.T. flings Bryce into the bedroom, throwing him onto the bed and straddling him, kicking off his pants like a man enraged, their embrace all bucking and clawing, J.T.'s lips and teeth all over his face.

"You're my favourite." Bryce pants, not sure if he's hitting J.T. or caressing him. "You're my favourite."

And he's got J.T.'s face clasped between his hands, and for a second their just stare into each other's eyes, red-faced and jacked up. This is always the best moment for Bryce, the breathless, silent adoration, when he can hear J.T.'s frenetic heartbeat and feel the hunger, the visceral want, the way they're holding each other at a distance and pulling themselves back in all at once, a tense, ephemeral balance.  
It can't ever last.  
The victorious tussle starts again, and Bryce lets J.T. do whatever he wants to him.

\--

In the morning, when J.T. zips up his backpack to swing back to his house before he goes to the park, Bryce notices something while he's inspecting his obvious hickeys in the ensuite bathroom.  
He stares at it for a second, unsure of what to do. Unsure of what this is. And, well, a little scared, that same fear...

"J.T.? He calls out, after a while.

"Yeah?" J.T.'s footsteps echo down the hall, and his face appears at the door, freshly shaved, a bruise at the base of his neck all-too visible.

Bryce looks at him, then at the sink, and at him again. Like a deer in headlights.  
Finally, he points at the tumbler.

"Don't forget your toothbrush."

There's a marked silence.  
J.T.'s eyes rest into his heavily, a cross between a thousand mile stare and a glare. Then, they slide to the blue toothbrush sitting there next to Bryce's, and back at Bryce again, a mirror to him, an answer to his question.  
Bryce is about to say something —what exactly, he isn't quite sure— but J.T. cuts the moment short.  
Wordlessly he stiffly extends his arm, holding out his open hand, maintaining eye contact. Bryce hesitates, but takes the brush from the tumbler and hands it to J.T., who snatches it from his grip, and gives him the same rage-filled, broken look he did back in the clubhouse a couple weeks ago.

Then, without saying a word, he turns away, leather shoes snapping against the hardwood again.

"See ya later." Bryce exclaims, but all he hears is the door slamming.

God damn it. What is he doing?

\--

Knock, knock, knock.  
Bryce feels silly, in his pyjamas, in the thick-carpeted hotel hallway, waiting at J.T.’s door.  
They’re in St Louis. They lost tonight. Everybody's miserable.  
Bryce is miserable. J.T.'s been avoiding him for four days now. Not ignoring him, just— distant. Bryce thought maybe he'd be mad, maybe push him away, or yell at him, but it's worse. He just seems sad, muted. Bryce knows it's his fault, one way or another.

But he can't sleep now. And the bad stretch, and the loss, and him with his three stupid strikeouts...  
And he just feels so guilty. He needs J.T., it feels selfish, but he really does.  
So he’s here, knocking.

J.T. opens up the door looking like he just got out of bed, which he probably did, he doesn’t usually stay up. He’s squinting at the bright light of the hallway, and doesn’t seem to completely understand who is there.

“Hey...?” he mutters, sleepily.

But it’s too late. Bryce slips past him and walks straight into his room to avoid any awkward conversations.

“...'kay.” J.T. just says, watching him make a beeline for the bed. He sounds resigned to whatever Bryce is doing.

He slips into J.T.'s half-unmade bed, untucking the sheets and slotting himself in there, back turned to the middle, hand under the pillow. His heart is beating fast. He hears J.T. sigh, and then feels the bed dip a little as he huddles back into his spot, pulling the covers over his shoulder.

He doesn't know what he's going to do next. He barely knows why he's here. He's too afraid to even roll over and look at J.T., even less cuddle up to him or anything else he wants to do. So he just lies there, because at the least, J.T. seems happy to let him sleep next to him.  
They're a fair distance apart, Bryce at the edge of the mattress, his head resting on the bottom corner of the pillow. He's staring right ahead, as if the hotel art on the wall or the curtains pulled over the bay window or J.T.'s open suitcase might have answers or advice to his situation.  
It's pathetic. He should know what to do. He should have planned. It shouldn't be this hard, anyway. Why is it this hard? Bryce internally curses at his stupid, stubborn self.

If he weren't a such a coward... things could be different. But he's scared all the time, scared of change, and scared of certainty. He thought things would change when he left DC, a new start, and in a lot of ways, they did, _he_ did, but it didn't relieve the fear that rests at the bottom of his belly. It's still there. He can't seem to get rid of it.

He thinks about J.T.'s clothes in his closet back home, thinks about the courage it must have taken J.T. to decide to leave them there, the complete trust in their— relationship he must have had. He's never wished he could be like him more. J.T. and him may spend most of their free time together, and they've definitely had dates, but he's never had the guts to even think of them as dates.  
God, he's a disgrace.

He feels paralysed here in J.T.'s hotel bed. Nervous. Ridiculous.  
And then, there's a soft weight on the side of his head.  
He can hear J.T. breathe, can feel his hand reaching out softly to stroke his shower-puffy hair.  
Bryce doesn't move a muscle. He lets J.T. pet him for what seems like forever, his motion gentle, his fingers digging lightly into the thick locks above his ear, fingernails grazing his scalp pleasantly.  
He just wants to cry. J.T. is so caring, his touch light and ginger and wanting. He doesn't deserve him.  
So, softly, he raises his hand to rest it on top of J.T.'s as he strokes near his ear, and J.T. freezes.

There's suspended animation for a moment, hope and desire screaming out from J.T. so strongly that Bryce can _feel it_.  
He takes those big fingers into his hand, and rubs them softly with his thumb. J.T.'s breath hitches.

There's shuffling, and Bryce feels J.T. crawl closer, climbing on top of him, his dark blue eyes glistening in the dim light. Silently, he brushes his hair out of his eyes, fingers feather-light.

Bryce lets himself roll onto his back, closes his eyes, and lets J.T. kiss him. It's so oddly careful, and delicate, and slow.  
He brings his hands up to J.T.'s face, and they feel weak and shaky, but his fingers curl at J.T.'s sideburns, sweetly rubbing his knuckles against his stubbly scalp.  
J.T. exhales deeply through his nose, and cups his face with his big hands, thumbs tracing underneath his eyes as he kisses his mouth like it's a treasure.

Bryce feels his breath catching, a lump forming in his throat. He feels full of butterflies, his heart buzzing like a bee, and that wonderful feeling rising in his chest, that feeling that makes him want to believe in God, that makes him wonder why he ever is afraid of anything at all.  
And in that moment he knows what he's going to say, and he's going to say it, and he smiles against J.T.'s lips.  
J.T. pulls away, hovering an inch above Bryce, warm and beautiful, and Bryce rasps his forefingers against his temple, keeping his eyes closed.

"I think I'm in love." he whispers against J.T.'s face.

When he opens his eyes, J.T.'s looking at him, all flushed and his lips just slightly parted.  
And then, he reaches out and tucks his hair behind his ear.  
He starts laughing quietly, and Bryce almost starts panicking until he realises he's got tears welling up in his eyes, and he's smiling out the corner of his mouth.

"Me too." he lets out, and softly laughs at himself, like it's the stupidest thing he's ever said.

And they're looking at each other, and Bryce starts laughing too, and their lips meet again, fondly, blindly, until J.T. leaves Bryce's lips to dot the sweetest kisses all across his face, his eyelids, his nose, his eyebrows, as they roll on their side.  
Bryce feels incredible. He feels so light. He feels so free. Because he's in love. And so is J.T.. And it's the most beautiful thing that's happened to him in a long long time.  
He nuzzles J.T.'s cheek, breathing through his nose, eyes lidded. Their fingers intertwine, and they're holding hands, J.T. bracing himself above him, nudging their faces together tenderly like snuggling cats.  
When Bryce exhales, his breath is trembling, and J.T. kisses the top of his hairline, like a promise. He brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, and Bryce feels protected, there in J.T.'s arms as he pulls him into the warm safety his clothed chest, his nose squashed against J.T.'s loose t-shirt.  
J.T.'s arms squeeze around him.

"I been in love for a while." he murmurs.

Bryce can feel the calming embrace of sleep enveloping him, and he burrows his face against J.T. dozily.

"Me too." he breathes out. "And I'm sorry."

J.T. softly scratches at the back of his neck, and Bryce's body grows limper, melting into J.T.'s arms.

"It's fine." he whispers. "It's fine."

There's a kiss on top of his head.

"It's alright now."

And Bryce can sleep, now.

**Author's Note:**

> Gave this baby a Menzingers song title (with different menzingers lyrics in the summary!) because michaelsgang seemed very enthusiastic at my previous Bryce/JT, and had a Phillies fic with a Menzingers song title.
> 
> **Please leave a comment if you enjoyed!!!**


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